


the adventures of shire hobbits

by wearethewitches



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Dwarves, Elves, Gen, Genderbending, Half-Elves, Hobbits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Various Hobbit snippets. ~prompts welcome





	1. #treasure of all treasures.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy Took is half a dwarrow and half a hobbit; there is also a key around her neck.

_Keep these safe for me, ghivashel._

Poppy holds her necklace tightly, reminiscing on her father’s words. _I was a child, back then._ Mind wandering, Poppy crosses her legs under her so as to get a better angle for her book – which, coincidentally, is a dwarven history, written in her father-language, khuzdul.

Finding her place again, Poppy reads her book, paging through the account of the Battle of Azanulbizar. Only when the sun becomes blocked quite suddenly, does she look up, squinting to see who it is.

“…good day to you,” Poppy speaks hesitantly, barely able to see the Man because of the glare. “May I help?”

“Perhaps,” he says, sounding slightly curious. “You wouldn’t happen to know whereabouts does Poppy Took reside?”

“Why might you be looking for her?” Poppy asks in amusement, not quite sure if this Man is aware of her odd-bloodness.

“I was hoping to ask her on an adventure,” the Man moves and all of a sudden, Poppy can see him properly. Holding a staff, smoking a long pipe and wearing a long grey cloak and hat, the Man gives her a small smile. “Would you be perhaps interested, my dear?”

“I’m not much of an adventurer, I’m afraid to tell you,” Poppy informs him, raising her chin. “However, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who might you be?”

“Who might I-” he stops, shaking his head. “It is I! Gandalf! Gandalf the Grey!”

“Gandalf?” Poppy questions. “From my mother’s stories? And who makes the very _excellent_ fireworks for Midsummer?”

“Indeed, fireworks,” Gandalf chuckles, puffing his pipe good-naturedly. “And yes, from your mother’s stories – though they weren’t much stories rather than accounts of our travels together, I would imagine.”

“Oh, I know, it’s just…easier, I suppose, to call them tales,” Poppy shuts her book, sitting up straighter on her bench. “What adventure were you hoping to take _me_ on, then?”

“Well,” Gandalf starts, leaning on his staff. “It is a long and arduous tale, but what you must know, my dear, is that it completely and entirely revolves around _dwarves_.”

Poppy’s eyes widen. “Dwarves? What kind of dwarves?”

“The royal kind,” Gandalf points at her. “And I know perfectly well that you’re aware of who your father was and so was your mother, so be polite to them.”

“Shut up,” Poppy immediately snaps, getting up off her bench and gripping her book tightly. “Go away. I don’t want adventures with other dwarves and I don’t want you talking about my father.”

“I’m afraid they’re already on their way,” Gandalf says. Poppy, who had begun to glare, falters, suddenly unsure. Gandalf takes the moment to look about, humming. “A lovely smial. Whatever did happen to your abode in Bindbole Wood?”

“Bag-End was left to me in Master Baggins’ will. He took me in after my parents died,” Poppy replies, swallowing. Gandalf opens his mouth to speak again, but Poppy cuts him off, feeling impetuous. “I don’t like you. Go away. I’ll call the Shirrifs if you don’t and take out my swords if you keep at it.”

Gandalf eyes her with surprise. “Swords?”

Poppy huffs, before twirling to face the door, stomping up the path. _Ignore him, ignore him_ , she thinks as she enters her big, drafty home, slamming the door shut and managing to catch her own shirt in it.

“Oh no,” she mutters, tugging gently before realising she’d have to open the door again. Groaning, Poppy does so, very quickly, not expecting to see Gandalf coming up the path to her door. Forgetting her dramatic exit for the moment, Poppy opens the door wide enough to see out of clearly, frowning at the wizard. “What are you going to do?”

Gandalf slows, looking down at her with faux-innocence. “Nothing at all. I was simply going to…knock,” he compounds his words by knocking with his staff. Poppy glances at it, hesitant to believe him. “Well?” he questions, raising his eyebrows.

“Uh…”

“If one knocks on a door, they expect to be answered,” Gandalf prompts, “perhaps even with an invite to tea.”

“It’s not teatime,” Poppy replies, still clutching her book. “Please go away,” she pleads, before shutting the door again, making sure not to shut her shirt in again. Rushing through her smial, trying to get away from the door, Poppy locks herself in her bedroom, leaning up against the door.

Across the room, her mirror reflects her. Poppy looks over, cataloguing her features. Black hair, like her mother before her – like her father too, apparently, before he went old and grey. Green eyes, like her mother again. Belladonna had sunflowers around her eyes though, Poppy remembers, even though she can’t picture it.

 _Have I really forgotten what she looks like?_ Poppy questions herself, despite knowing that she looks the spitting image of Belladonna Took. Only her feet give her away as less than full hobbit, lacking nearly any hair at all, the only tiny curls there thin, dark and silky, rather than bushy and able to take the brunt of the rocky road.

She tugs at her shirt – a white, sleeveless ordeal that her father sewed himself for her thirty-third birthday. The blue and gold embroidery around the edge is so very dwarven with its geometric designs and knots. Sometimes, Poppy pretends that it’s normal in the Shire to wear it.

“I miss you, _adad_ ,” she murmurs, pulling the square collar to her lips, burrowing her nose into it.

Drawing her knees up, Poppy wonders if the dwarrow coming – to her smial, most probably – would hate her for being a half-breed, half a dwarf and half a hobbit. She draws her nails over the seam of her leather trousers – which were yet another reminder of her father, who insisted she wear them in case she were ‘attacked’.

 _Attacked in the Shire, what a thought_.

Later that evening, stomach rumbling, she curls up in the entrance to the store room, nearer to the door than she feels comfortable with but knows is necessary. _I’m afraid they’re already on their way_ , Gandalf had said. Poppy squeezes her eyes shut, gripping her short-swords with a painful grip. _Who is coming? He said the ‘royal kind’ of dwarf. Did he mean those of the Iron Hills? Of the South? Of Erebor?_

Wrapped up in her worries, the sharp rap on the door causes her to jump, almost tripping onto the floor. Poppy stares at the door, wondering if she’d just imagined it before seeing a figure peer through the window.

No, not just a figure – a _dwarf_.

Breathing in deeply, Poppy draws up one of her swords, putting the other in her belt before going up to the door, swinging it up. On her porch, a dwarf stands. Bald, covered in dark tattoos that she can tell speak of his deeds in Azanulbizar, but still with a thick, dark brown beard, he narrows his eyes at the sight of her sword pointed at him.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he introduces, bowing slightly. “Are you Gandalf’s chosen hobbit?”

“I’m not much of a hobbit,” Poppy replies before her stomach rumbles loudly. _That’s what I get for missing three meals,_ she thinks, before he reaches for her sword, grasping the flat of the blade with two fingers.

“Don’t point that at someone unless you’re going to use it,” he says, before manoeuvring himself inside. “Where are your parents, lass?”

“None of your business,” Poppy pulls her sword out of his grip, swallowing at the sight of his two war-hammers. “Gandalf is making a nuisance of himself. I told him to go away.”

“He said there’d be food,” Dwalin says, sniffing. Poppy lurches, grabbing his coat as he goes to stomp with muddy feet in the direction of the kitchen through Bungo’s sitting room and library.

“Around, please, three doors down and take your shoes off. There’s a stand for weapons, if you didn’t see it,” Poppy motions to the stone ‘umbrella rack’, as she had to call it in front of curious, nit-picky hobbits. She waits until Dwalin makes to remove his war-hammers before letting go, only hanging up her own belt when he’s making for his boots. “How many of you are there?”

“Including the wizard, fifteen,” Dwalin grunts before taking off his boots, placing them beside the door.

“Fifteen?” Poppy immediately darts forwards, shutting the doors to the living room. He watches her as she panics, bounding about to shut and lock door after door.

“What you got to hide, lass?”

“Protect,” Poppy corrects. “I inherited this house from my guardian when he died. These aren’t my things, not really. I want to keep them safe. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” Dwalin replies shortly. “Are you coming on the quest, or not?”

“I’m not at all prepared,” Poppy admits, glancing up at him with a slight frown. “Gandalf said t’was to be an adventure, not a quest. What are you questing, Master Dwalin?”

“Erebor,” he says, causing her to widen her eyes. “Are ye coming or not?”

“I- but- but Erebor is _lost!_ ” she exclaims. “Smaug lies asleep inside! Dragon-magic and dragon-curse rest on the hoard…who leads such a party? Who would dare?”

“My king,” Dwalin glares, before stomping off to the kitchen. _King?_ Poppy stands still for a few moments, wondering which king he’s referring to before another knock sounds. Going to the door, Poppy opens it to be greeted by a cheerful old dwarf with a snowy-white beard.

“Balin, at your service,” he smiles, bowing his head.

“Good evening,” Poppy says awkwardly, causing Balin to look back and up at the sky, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, yes it is, though I think it might rain later. Am I late?”

“Early,” she says, “or perhaps I’m late. Apparently, I have to make a feast of dwarven proportions.”

Balin frowns at her lightly, leaning in slightly. “Aren’t your parents in charge of such endeavours?”

Poppy bristles slightly, narrowing her eyes. She doesn’t answer him, moving out of the way so he can enter. Pointing at Dwalin’s boots and at the weapon’s stand, she speaks coldly.

“Boots. Weapons. No going into any locked rooms.”

Balin, slightly taken-aback, enters cautiously. “Of course, lassie…”

Poppy shuts the door, making a plan inside her head. _Parents. Why do these dwarrow keep asking me about them?_

“A feast for fifteen,” Poppy says, cracking her knuckles. “A quest to Erebor. A pantry full of goods.”

Knowing she can leave some things for breakfast tomorrow morning and perhaps for rations, she gets to work, putting all of her hobbitness to good use. Dwalin and Balin make themselves useful, helping her haul most of the food into the kitchen and setting up the dining table.

Half an hour into preparations, two new dwarves knock on her door. Fíli and Kíli are young, brash and almost immediately make Poppy want to bash her head against a rock.

“Don’t you dare,” she pushes Kíli to the ground as he tries to wipe his boots on her mother’s glory box, a beautiful jewelled masterpiece created by her father, carved with hobbittish designs. Glaring at him, she points at the two neatly-arranged boot pairs of the Fundinsons. “Over there, little boy.”

“I’m not little!” Kili complains, before shucking off his boots on the ground, Fili clipping him over the ear when he throws one of his into the pile. “Hey!”

“Clear rules of hospitality are to be held as well as those that follows: no muddy shoes, no weapons, no going into locked rooms and no desecration of any items within this smial and its gardens. Got it?”

“Got it,” they say as one, before she recruits them to peel potatoes, squash and carrots.

It’s another hour before the majority of the others show up and by then, the two elder and two younger dwarrow have eaten through Poppy’s breads, seed cakes and fruits. Gandalf chuckles from behind the pile of them, that Poppy narrowly avoids being beneath.

“Poppy, how fares your evening?”

“I’m being invaded,” she says blankly before clapping loudly, getting the dwarves’ attention. “Boots to the side, weapons to the stand. There’s a table that’s been set up to accommodate everyone except Gandalf, because he annoyed me. Half of dinner is ready, though I’ve been informed that if I get a ‘Bombur’ involved, my efforts will be halved.”

“That’s me,” says a rather rotund ginger dwarf as they follow her instructions.

“Lovely. My name is Poppy Took, welcome to my smial. Please follow the general rules of hospitality and if you find a locked door, do not enter the room behind it. Might I know your names?” Poppy questions cordially.

“By family,” Gandalf begins as they all bow and say their names with an _at your service milady_ , unable to be heard over each other, “we have Oín, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori and Ori. We are lacking some few of our company, but obviously they have all arrived before us-”

“Not quite. We’re two short,” Poppy interrupts. “Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli are here, already.”

“Ah,” Gandalf says, some humour leaving him. “I see.”

The rest of the evening is hectic, but merry. Poppy easily sinks into the background, organising and catering to the company. Her pantry and cold storage are practically empty, by the time the feasting is done and the last of her ale is being passed around. In the kitchen under a towel, two bowls of soup, half a loaf of bread and four slices of two different pies await their missing comrades.

Poppy, herself, no longer aches for food, having snacked and fed during that first hour and a half before the other eight joined them.

Of course, there is a _little_ excitement, the other dwarves watching on in amusement as she berates the dwarf, Nori, who had snuck some of Bungo’s silver cutlery into his sleeves in front of her.

“-and don’t think I didn’t see your earlier tricks, either!” she finishes, reaching forwards to open his coat, rifling through his pocket for her matching candlesticks, pinching him sharply when he tries to get away, his brother, Dori, helpfully holding him in place as she retrieves Bungo’s belongings.

 _Her_ , Poppy corrects when she accidentally feels their bandaged chest.

“How did you even know I had those?” Nori questions, incredulous.

“I _saw_ you, for one,” Poppy dumps her haul on the table. “You thought you were so sneaky that you could get past a hobbit?”

“Thought you were the furthest thing from a hobbit,” Dwalin grunts. Poppy glances at him, then at Gandalf, who watches with a renewed interest.

“…I’m more hobbit than dwarf, but not hobbit enough for the rest of the Shire,” she mutters.

“Wait, you’re a half-breed?” Kíli questions, getting hit over his head by Balin.

“Quiet, boy. That’s not how you approach such a delicate subject.”

“It’s fine,” Poppy interjects, tugging at the sleeves of her wool overtunic that she’d pulled on before grabbing her swords, earlier in the day. “Everyone in the Shire knows. My mother found my father in the Gladden Fields, adventuring with her brothers. He could barely remember his own language, let alone his name. It’s a miracle I know any khuzdul at all.”

At that, there’s a definitive murmur through the group, but they stay quiet, letting her speak.

“I’d rather not speak about it,” she finishes awkwardly. There are a few sighs of disappointment, before Balin politely questions her.

“Who was your father, Mistress Took?”

Poppy opens her mouth to reply, but two knocks at the same time come from the door, one rather strange-sounding. Without another word to the party, Poppy speed-walks to answer the door, happy to avoid answering the question.

“Coming! Just a moment!” Running the last few yards, she opens the door slowly, finding herself in the presence of two dwarves who could not be less alike.

The taller of them is dark-haired, with runs of silver-grey. Silver beads swing from his braids, but that’s not what is so shocking – his shorn beard is, less than even poor, young Kíli. Bright blue eyes gaze down at her, scrutinising her, dwarf-forged sword at his waist far less impressive than the gigantic hammer the other dwarf bears on his back.

The other dwarf himself is bright ginger with two thick streaks of white pulled back in one long plait, old face marred with a thick, silver scar. Halfway down his left leg, a mechanical one takes over and in his hand he palms a curved dagger.

“Oi, lassie, is this where we’re at?”

“I’d assume so, considering the other dwarrow within my abode,” Poppy greets, letting them in as said dwarrow come around the corner with Gandalf at their heels. “Are these your comrades?”

“Aye,” Dwalin grunts, stepping forwards to take the dark-haired dwarf’s arm, each nodding to the other before he looks to the ginger. “Dain.”

“Dwalin Fundinson,” ‘Dain’ greets, taking Dwalin’s arm as it slips from his friends’.

“Gandalf,” said dwarf starts, “I though you said this place would be easy to find? We lost our way, both of us. Wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“Mark?” Poppy questions, looking to it. Immediately, she narrows her eyes, crouching down the trace the khuzdul rune. “ _Ghivashel?_ Really? Tharkûn, I _hate_ you. I _just_ got this painted last week…” Groaning, she rubs at it, hoping that the endearment would rub off. Perhaps because she wanted it to, it doesn’t.

“Apologies, my dear,” Gandalf chuckles. “Poppy Took, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Still crouched, Poppy almost topples over as she starts, instead getting to her feet sharply, looking at the dark-haired dwarf – _Thorin_ – in horror.

Thorin, in turn, looks at Poppy, watching as she blindly shuts the door, staring at him.

“Tell me, Miss Took, where are your parents, so that we might be introduced?”

“…why is everyone so obsessed with my long-dead parents?” Poppy instead questions under her breath, still able to be heard by the closest of the company – Thorin, Dain and Dwalin, the former of which frowns deeply, putting a familiar crease in his brow.

“Why are we here, if not for your parents?”

“I don’t suppose you’re all here for _me?_ ” she questions sarcastically. “It’s not like I’m an adult, who can make my own decisions and can wield two short-swords, _no_. It’s not like Gandalf press-ganged me into joining this foolish quest of yours, which has something to do with reclaiming Erebor.”

Thorin stiffens. “Tis not foolish. The dragon has not been seen in sixty years-”

“Dragons live for centuries,” Poppy interrupts, scowling, crossing her arms. “Shoes off and weapons to the stand,” she points at it and after a few seconds, Dain follows her orders but Thorin doesn’t move an inch. “Shoes and weapons aren’t allowed here.”

“Oh really…” Thorin mutters, looking at her with distain.

“It’s her house, Thorin,” Dwalin grunts. “We’re under guest rite. If she says no weapons, you give them up. You really think there’s going to be trouble here, with her? She’s a pipsqueak-”

“Hey!”

“-you scared of a little girl?” Dwalin challenges, Dain laughing a little.

“Aye, Thorin, you scared of some little lassie?”

“I’m not little! I’m very tall for a hobbit!” Poppy objects, stamping her foot.

“Not for a dwarf, girlie,” Dwalin glances at her. “Four foot nothing isn’t the smallest a dwarf can get, but it ain’t tall, either.”

“Enough,” Gandalf interrupts, before Poppy can retort angrily. “Thorin, leave your weapons amongst those of your comrades and for the Valar’s sake, take your shoes off!”

Thorin grumbles, but bitterly does as he’s told. Poppy fumes for a few moments before going back to the dining room, sitting down at the corner of the table as Bombur retrieves Thorin and Dain’s meals.

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?” Balin questions as they eat

“Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms,” Thorin says. Dwalin looks to Dain.

“What of the Iron Hills? Do you have an army waiting for us, there?”

“On standby, should we reach Erebor unscathed and need them. For now, they’re guarding my kingdom, as they should,” Dain replies from across the table, slurping his soup. “Who made this? It’s mighty fine.”

“I did,” Poppy grumbles.

Dain raises a mug of ale to her, “Good soup.”

Thorin grunts. “This quest is ours and ours alone. To make none aware that we are going to retake the Mountain, we shall be travelling in secret. When we reach Erebor, we shall either have to rely on a messenger-on-foot, or the ravens if they have returned, to send word to Dain’s kin.”

“Mmm,” Gandalf hums, before prodding Poppy gently. “If we might have some more light, young Poppy.”

“I’m fifty, Tharkun,” Poppy grumbles. “I’m far from young.”

“Fifty?” Ori questions. “You’re younger than Kili!”

“Hobbits are adults at thirty-three,” Poppy snaps at him, before Kili can join in the rabble, getting up to go grab a gas-lamp from Bungo’s study, unlocking the door to retrieve it. In the silence of the room, Poppy takes a few moments to breathe, taking her own, sweet time to light it.

When she returns, however, there’s more than a few mutters from the dwarrow in her dining room.

“-a burglar, Gandalf. She doesn’t look like she could steal the Arkenstone from-”

“No, no, she could,” Nori argues in what seems to be her favour. “She caught me with some pretty baubles from around the room, here – this is the pile. Dori strung me up, just for her. She could do it.”

Agreement sweeps over the dwarrow that had been there for longer than five minutes and Poppy belatedly feels something like gratitude, heart warming at the thought of them taking her side…until remembering exactly what they were arguing over.

“What’s the Arkenstone?” she questions, returning sharply. Thorin jumps at the sound of her voice, twisting his head around to watch her enter the room, setting the lamp down on the table. At her appearance, Gandalf lays a map down and Poppy sits in Mungo Baggins’ chair, peering at it curiously.

“All will be told in time, my dear,” Gandalf says, before pointing on the map. “Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Poppy reads off the map, biting her lip. “Erebor.”

“Aye,” Gloin nods. “Oín has read the portents and the portents say it is time.”

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold:  _when the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end_ ,” Oín recites.

“An army will be at our backs,” Balin says, sounding particularly down-hearted, “but the might of Erebor at its height could not fell the beast. What hope have we fourteen? Fourteen that are not the best, nor the brightest?”

Around the table comes rightful outrage as Poppy thinks, _sixteen_ , looking at Gandalf over her shoulder.

“ _Shazara!_ ” Thorin finally exclaims, the room falling silent. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumours have begun to spread: the dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we _seize_ the chance to take back Erebor?”

 _That is some speech,_ Poppy thinks, before Thorin starts a chant of _to arms_ , shouting _Du Bekâr_ over and over, until Balin interrupts their revelry.

“You forget,” he calls, the room quieting once more. “The front gate is sealed. There is no way into the Mountain.”

Which, of course, is when Gandalf, in all his mysterious glory, interjects with: “That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.” He then, of course, looks to _Poppy._ “Lady Took…”

“…what?” Poppy questions, caught off-guard. Narrowing her eyes at him, she glances at the surrounding dwarrow, not knowing what the old man has up his sleeve – or if he’ll use her family heritage against her.

“Your father entrusted you with certain items, I am to understand,” Gandalf says, smiling that meddlesome smile.

“And what?” Poppy raises her eyebrow. “You think a ring and a key are somehow our way into Erebor?”

“The key, more than the ring,” Gandalf allows, “However, I do suspect that Thorin will wish for the second when it becomes clear _what_ ring Thrain gave you.”

“That _wasn’t_ his name,” Poppy immediately snaps, snarling, reaching for her necklace protectively, hand clasping over where the key and ring sit against her skin under her clothes. Gandalf sits back, silent – Thorin, however, does the complete opposite.

“Thrain?” he questions. “My father left you items of importance?”

“ _My_ father left me items of importance, for safe keeping,” Poppy looks away from Gandalf. Thorin grips his spoon tight enough she can see it start to bend. “Don’t do that to Bungo’s silver.”

“Thrain,” Thorin repeats, staring at her. “Thrain gave you a key and a ring.”

“My key and my ring, now,” Poppy snips, annoyed, taking them up from under her shirt and tunic. She holds the golden chain up for him to see, letting them swing in front of his eyes for a long few seconds, letting him see. Then, she tucks them back into her bosom, muttering. “Don’t go to Erebor, _nadad_.”

“ _Namad_ ,” Thorin says under his breath. He says _sister_ to her _brother_. “Poppy, daughter of Thrain.”

“He called himself Wodun, here,” she says. “He kept that name long after he remembered the truth. He married my mother and took her last name, because he didn’t have one. Wodun Took. He made his living tending to the forge in Hobbiton, repairing farm tools, clocks and the like and with a market-stall of self-embroidered items.”

“You’re a legitimate heir,” Thorin says, sounding uneasy. “He married your mother and made a family.”

“I’m a half-breed. I doubt I count, though thank-you for the consideration,” Poppy curls her feet under her, oven-tunic riding up some.

“So, you’re our aunt?” Fíli questions down the table, full of disbelief. “I can’t believe it!”

“Not to interrupt the family reunion, but perhaps I could explain the significance of Poppy’s key,” Gandalf says, using his pipe to point at a series of runes on the map. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls. Poppy’s key supposedly opens it – this map was given to me by Thrain when she was small and he explained the significance of each artefact to me then.”

“There’s definitely another way in, then,” Nori notes semi-casually.

“Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere on this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle Earth who can. The task to retrieve the Arkenstone will require a great deal of strength and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar,” Ori helpfully points out, causing Poppy’s eyes to widen.

“Wait, _this_ is your adventure, Gandalf? Steal from Smaug, who I grew up with as a bad bedtime story, warning me from ever venturing East?” Poppy questions, before Thorin reaches over, hand clasping around her upper arm.

“ _Namad_ , this is your birth-right as a child of Durin. While it pains me to think of you in danger, even knowing you only this short time as my fathers _nanith_ , if the beast awakens to find a strange-smelling creature in his lair, he will at least pause to give you time to escape.”

“What about Frerin and Dis? Why aren’t they here, then, if it’s our birth-right?” Poppy questions, trying to find any exit.

“Frerin died in Azanulbizar, _namad_ ,” Thorin murmurs, shocking her. “Perhaps our father left before he knew, but Frerin died of his wounds there and was set in stone. As for Dis, she is alive and well, looking after our people in the Blue Mountains, in my absence.”

“…oh,” Poppy whispers. “I- I just- I just _grew_ up hearing about my siblings. _Adad_ never thought himself worthy of seeing any of you again. I didn’t know he…”

“Frerin will meet us all again in the Halls of Mahal,” Thorin states quietly. “Father is dead, then.”

“He died in the Fell Winter. Wolves invaded the Shire, when the Brandywine River froze and went to sleep. It’s one of our main defences against evil. The magic in it slept and the Shire starved. Papa held the border of Hobbiton, while Bungo kept the village all warm in here.”


	2. #beruthien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bard x thranduil, nsfw+domestics

You’re only a girl, when you first watch the elves feast and dance, celebrating Midsummer. You’re enthralled, captivated, only having just passed your twelfth name-day. You sneak into Mirkwood often, after that, trying to find the elusive creatures who had so humbled you with their graceful revelry. You learn the forest between Laketown and the party clearing, taking special care to stay out of the way of patrols. To you, it’s both strange and not-so-strange that you can hear them so easily, sense their presence.

Your mother, and all the women before her, wore blue for a reason.

Even you wear blue, though oft you wear your father’s thick, fur coat, made from a black bear and the softest of leathers, worn thin over the decades that had passed since your great grandfather made it. It helps you blend better into the shadow of the Greenwood – of _Mirkwood_ , as many now call it, due to the darkness and children of Ungoliant that curse it. Those of Laketown stay far from the edge, and complain of how the vapours within make them ill and nauseous. You, due to your unique – hidden – lineage, don’t feel the same, instead only feeling a pressing ache against the back of your neck, and a feeling as if you somehow _know_ , deep within you, that something is terribly wrong.

However, you still go in, still explore and map it, dodging the elven parties and watching them party at yearly celebrations. You keep spying, and your luck only runs out on the year you are truly considered a woman, an adult. Your father has been dead several years, and your guardian is the Master of Laketown – you have more reason than most to run away to watch _Mereth-en-Gilith_.

It is, of course, surprising, when an elf walks up behind you and asks something in Sindarin. You spin, eyes wide in shock, and you stare for a moment, mouth opening and shutting, before you notice how the silver-haired elf sways, wine-glass sloshing. You can’t see him fully in the dark – though you can see it is a he, and young – and you think for a moment that he must be someone important, from the shine of his undertunic, robes long gone.

But you don’t stay still for long, and figure that a distraction could work. That distraction being your hands gripping his shoulders and kissing him softly. You’ve seen Helga at Laketown’s sole pub do it when she has to pickpocket her due from customers who hadn’t paid their tabs, and while you know elves are different from men, you don’t think they’re _that_ different.

You’re proved right when his wine-glass drops to the damp ground, and you’re backed up against a tree, hands pressing against your body as he kisses you this time – tongue slipping into your mouth, and you force yourself not to make a noise of surprise, instead rolling with it. You’ve done this before, if only the week before – you’d done it with Siegfried, before he slipped under the icy waters of the Long Lake, you know how it works. Your hands grip his tunic tighter, and you press closer, leg lifting slightly to bracket his hip.

As long as you can get away after this, without being dragged in front of hundreds of elves with barely your undergarments on, this is fine. In any case, the elf holding you is a skilled lover – he rucks up your tunic before too long, pushing off your breeches and underwear, and you aren’t sure, but the heavy alcohol on his tongue bothers you enough to believe that he might be running from memory and instinct. However, it affects you too, and you loosen your muscles in a way that he must have already been expecting, because his efforts towards your pleasure double, soft, long fingers twirling and pressing as his lips shift to your neck.

He whispers in Sindarin as you bite down on your coat-sleeve to contain the noises you might make, and you wish you could understand it, briefly, before he touches your entrance and fills you. Without even trying, he shows Siegfried up, and you don’t have any other coherent thoughts between then and the aftershocks of each of your completions. By then, you are on the dark forest ground, his arms wrapped around you, eyes shut unusually, for you know that elves sleep with their eyes open. It makes you wary, but you have to go, your distraction complete.

You unwrap yourself from his arms, using a rag from your pocket to wipe yourself a little, pausing before making your final exit. The elf in his sleep looks so sad, you realise in the back of your mind, his face marked with signs of grief you know only because of your father, and what he looked like after your mother passed from this world. You reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, catching the end by accident – and as you pull away, his eyes open sharply, hand coming up to grasp your retreating one. You freeze, and there’s silence – one made more disturbing by the lack of wildlife, the absence of birdsong and even the wind.

He lets go of your hand.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” he doesn’t let you look away until you nod, an air of power around him making you fully aware that it was an order you shouldn’t dismiss lightly, even if fear threads each syllable. _It’s not as if I was going to tell someone I slept with an elf, anyway_ , you rationalise as you run, tripping over branches and roots and stones but never fully falling until you reach the beach, dropping to your knees.

You don’t know if you’ll ever have the bravery to step back into those woods, knowing that elf would be there – knowing that he knew your face.

Making your way back to Laketown is more difficult, and you have to take a short dip into the Long Lake because of the fluids leaking down into your breeches. To make it worse, you’re caught on your way back into town by none other than Alfrid – the Master’s putrescent apprentice, who loves to stare at you with perverted thoughts visible in his eyes. He takes you to the Master’s home, and you share a conversation you never wish to speak of again, one which you manage to neatly, thankfully end with a simple, “ _Siegfried took my maidenhood, don’t worry about me._ ”

It’s not until two months later that you realise just how much that sentence will help you when you discover that you’re with child.

* * *

Sigrid is born and she’s a quiet babe, with soft, golden brown hair – _just like Siegfried’s,_ they say, instead of, _just like your mother’s_ – that looks like malt sugar, and a small nose that comes from you. Her ears don’t have a defined point, but they’re certainly not round. You look at her, and as well even when you don’t look at her, you know the truth. You wonder if she’ll be taller than you are – you’re pretty tall yourself – and if she’ll live a thousand years.

Laketown thinks Siegfried was her father, an unfortunate miracle between young lovers, and that Siegfried leaving a piece of himself with you is sad but not entirely bad, considering your family line. You think that they’re just waiting for her to grow, to whisper about her, whisper about you, so that lies are fed into her ears until you’re driven to make said lies truth, like your father did. He hadn’t been a drunkard until years after your mother’s death.

You are the only one to know the truth.

You are the only one to know that an elf is Sigrid’s father.

Sometimes, you walk with her on the beach, glancing back at Mirkwood and debating whether or not to seek him out, tell him he’s a father to Sigrid – for all you know, however, he has a family of his own. You don’t get those kind of skills by sitting around idle. Thoughts like that are what keep you back, as well as genuine cowardice, you’re all too aware.

An elven delegation comes to Laketown two months after Sigrid’s birth, a month before _Mereth-en-Gilith_ , and you’re terrified to see Sigrid’s father at the head of the procession.

For it seems, you had slept with the Elven _King._

And it’s not long before his sweeping eyes pinpoint you in the crowd, purely by accident, Sigrid resting her head against your clavicle, held in a sling against your body. He stares for mere seconds, but it’s as if time has stopped, before he looks away and speaks to one of his advisors in Sindarin, motioning to the Master. You watch him, until he has disappeared from sight, and then you escape, returning to your home on the water – the one your family had lived in for over a hundred years.

You are _not_ prepared for him to be outside your door, when you answer a soft knock.

“Oh, uh…good-day…Your Majesty.”

He enters your home, shutting the door, looking down at you with a strangely nervous expression. “You had a child, I saw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, stepping back and turning to go over to where she lays in her bassinet. Picking her up, you hold her head like Madam Yora taught you, turning slightly to glance at your royal visitor. “I didn’t know you were the king until today, I swear.”

“It is of no matter,” he says softly, staring at Sigrid with soft eyes from his place near the door. “It was a moment of…weakness, I shall say. Elves have a skewed sense of time, especially in their own heads. I was thinking deeply of my late wife at the time, something Legolas said…Legolas, my son and heir,” he clarifies at the end, and you nod, looking down at your daughter self-consciously, playing with one of her little curls. “What might your name be?”

“People here call me Bard, but my mother gave me the name Briana. She liked calling me Bri,” you glance only very briefly at the King, “you may call me any you like.”

“Very well, Lady Briana,” he replies, before stepping closer, slowly, in a way that doesn’t make you feel crowded. “I know who you are.”

“Oh? Well, that makes a change – you didn’t know my name a moment ago,” you say lightly, without force. He brings a hand up to hover near Sigrid’s head, and you can see his hesitance all too clearly. “Your Majesty, she’s only a baby.”

“She’s my daughter.”

It’s said, it’s done, it’s out – but you don’t let it deter you. Taking the King’s hand, you tug him lightly, sitting down on the nearby bench. He lowers himself down, after a quick look at the dark wood, and you hand Sigrid over, immediately feeling a spike of fear you’d never felt before in your entire life. It was unlike anything you’d felt before, and you realise it was all to do with Sigrid, who had already gifted you with so many more feelings, and expanded your heart.

“You aren’t taking her,” escapes your mouth before you can stop it, and he slows in his actions to correct his own hold on Sigrid, meeting your eyes.

“Lady Briana, I would never take a child from their mother, even if they’re my own. Legolas’ mother took him to Lothlorien and back without my permission several times over the course of their time together, before illness took her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you murmur, edging closer, hand coming up to brush her hair softly. “I had a few questions, though, about what will happen to her. She’s half-elf, won’t that change things?”

“Half-elves are as long-lived as either of their parents, depending on their wishes,” Thranduil explains quietly, letting Sigrid take a hold of his finger, “Elrond of Imladris is half-elven, and he has ruled there for thousands of years.”

Your heart thuds in your chest at the notion. “And her growth?”

“From what I recall, Elrond grew as a human child did, before he settled as an elf,” he shifts, leaning to press a kiss to Sigrid’s forehead before handing her back to you. “What did you name her?”

You glance up at him, surprised at how close the two of you were. “Sigrid, after my best friend. If you would like to give her another name to be known as, like my mother did-”

“Lirial,” he interrupts, causing a short silence as you consider the name. _She’s still Sigrid, even if she is Lirial too_. You nod, acquiescing.

“It’s lovely.”

“I must go now,” he states, before bringing a hand to your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. You reciprocate, but only slightly, mostly confused as to why he would kiss you at all. “It will come to light quickly that I have another child, so I warn you now, that Laketown may receive more elven visitors – my son most likely included.” He turns his face at that, hand lowering, and it takes you a moment to register why he would say so.

“…He’ll come to see us.”

“I do not know how he will react,” Thranduil confesses, before standing and bowing his head imperiously. “We will meet again soon. Until then.”

“Until then,” you repeat, before watching him as he leaves, an elven guard outside meeting your eyes, glancing down at Sigrid in your arms, who begins to fuss. The door shuts, and you shakily unwrap to feed your child, sitting closer to the fireplace where it’s warm.

“Valar,” you shake your head, “what have I done?”

* * *

At _Mereth-en-Gilith_ that year, Thranduil visits the tiny glade where you had been caught the last time, and when he finds you there, sitting with a sleeping Sigrid watching from afar, he takes your hand and pulls you into the party clearing to join the festivities. The other elves don’t hesitate to include you, and at one point in the revelry, you hand over Sigrid to Thranduil, who sits on his throne, looking by far more merrier than you’d ever seen him, a glass of clear wine in his hand, Sigrid in his arms as you are spun and danced with on the forest floor.

When the Feast of Starlight finishes, you are brought to the Palace, and that night you sleep in the most luxurious room, with Sigrid in a beautiful carven crib beside your bed. Thranduil sits beside you, your head on his lap. At one point, you wake, because there are hushed voices, angry, and then calmer, and you slip back into sleep. In the morning, Thranduil is gone, and you are accompanied back to the edge of Mirkwood, Sigrid in your arms.


End file.
